


The Struggling Suicide

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay that title sucked and the story's pretty rubbish - just an investigation really, with Sherlock and John solving the case of a suicide at an All Boy's Academy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Struggling Suicide

It was average British weather. The sky had a grey, melancholy feel and a harsh breeze blew across my face. It was rather cold so I put my hands in my pockets as I briskly followed my companion. Sherlock Holmes had accepted this case as soon as he was presented with it. Some minor detail must have caught his eye. At seven o’clock this morning, the phone had rung. The caller had been a distressed woman phoning from Charleston Academy for Boys, a prestigious boarding school in the heart of British countryside. Mrs Jane Dolamore, the school nurse, was apparently an avid reader of my blog and was seeking help from the detective she’d heard so much about. The night before a pupil, named Edmund Harrison, was found dead in a classroom, hanged from the light by his tie. Several chairs were overturned and it was believed to be a suicide. However, Mrs Dolamore expressed her disbelief as she had always found Edmund to be a happy boy and said she couldn’t see why he would choose to end his life. I was expecting Sherlock to dismiss the case but he was eager to have a look. Soon I found myself outside the school gates, staring up at the building which distinctly reminded me of my own childhood.   
A woman walked up to us and introduced herself as Jane Dolamore. We introduced ourselves and she led us to the school reception. A few police officers were scattered around the school. Mrs Dolamore explained why we were on the premises.  
“There are so many people here, Jane. I’m losing track of them all. You might as well just go look around,” remarked the lady at the reception. “Actually, I’ll just take your names.”  
“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,” Mrs Dolamore replied. The receptionist smiled and greeted us warmly, telling us that she was an avid reader of both our blogs.   
“Follow me,” Mrs Dolamore beckoned and led us into the building.  
We proceeded along a school corridor, occasionally passing crowds of gawking students. Soon we reached a classroom and corridor sectioned off with police tape. A few police officers remained at the scene. My companion approached one.  
“Have you reached any conclusions?” He asked.  
“We have a few. Who are you?”   
“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Your conclusions are almost definitely wrong. Care to inform me?”  
The young police officer looked a bit baffled. “Um, well it would appear to be a suicide.”  
“Boring,” retorted Sherlock, as he peered inside the classroom where the incident had taken place. I was greeted by a chilling sight. The classroom was in a state of disarray, with tables knocked apart and chairs overturned. In the centre of the room, a teenage boy was hanging from the light by his school tie, limp and eyes hauntingly open.   
“I’m sorry?”   
“Not a suicide.”  
“Who are you?”  
“I told you, Sherlock Holmes.”  
“No, I mean why are you here?”  
“It’s not a suicide. Obviously.”  
“How can you-“  
“Look clearly, officer. It’s right in front of you.” The officer opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted. “There’s a boy. A happy boy, doing relatively well in school. He has no reason to kill himself so why? Why would the situation appear to be a suicide? It’s not a suicide, but it’s made to look like one. His tie is caught on the light. Accident? Or maybe he was put there.”  
“Murdered somewhere else and placed there by the killer to make everyone believe he killed himself?” I chipped in.  
“Possibly,” muttered Sherlock. He put on some gloves, opened the door to the classroom and walked around the body, ignoring the policemen’s protests. He inspected the subject and turned back to me. “He comes from a respectable, rich family. He takes care of himself and isn’t really the type to go out and muck around with his classmates. Then again, most of these people would be. He has a sister and an overprotective mother. But still no reason to commit suicide.” Sherlock dropped down and inspected the over turned chair right by the boy. “Aha.”   
“What?” An officer demanded. “What have you found?” Sherlock smiled and beckoned me over.  
“What do you see?” He asked me.  
“An overturned, uncomfortable plastic chair.”  
“Look closer, John!” I did so and saw a few chalky marks on the chair. “Shoes!”   
Needless to say, I had been overly puzzled at that remark but before I had time to enquire further, Sherlock had disappeared into the crowd again. I took a look around for him but came to no luck. However, my gaze fell upon a man behind a group of younger officers. He was tanned and appeared to be rather fed up. He was well built, with chunky limbs and straining muscles. His baggy shorts and whistle hung from his thick neck suggested that he was Coach Tucker, the school gym teacher. From the messages from Mrs Dolamore I had heard that the Coach was reputed to be an intimidating, harsh man, similar to most gym teachers I had come across. He looked around, seemingly observing every detail of the surroundings. I cautiously made my way over to him.  
“Mr Tucker?” I asked. His stern gaze snapped to me.   
“I have a class about to start.”  
“I’m John. John Watson. I’m here-“  
“I know why you’re here. The dead boy. Good riddance if you ask me. His father was one of your type.”  
“My type?”  
“Your type,” he repeated. “Nosy. I have a class now. Goodbye.” I didn’t want to let him leave without finding out more so I grabbed his arm instinctively. He pulled away but not quick enough for me to miss the purple bruises on his hand and lower arm.  
“John?” Sherlock appeared behind me. I spun around to look at him. He continued to speak. “We need to talk to a student. I was speaking to the lady we met when we entered and she gave me a name. Hubert Branson.”  
“Sherlock! Coach Tucker-“ I turned around to an empty space. I started to tell Sherlock of my suspicions but he cut me off midway.  
“Irrelevant,” he chimed and whisked me off to talk to the student.  
When the boy arrived in the office, Sherlock leaned forward and asked in a harsh tone, “Where were you the night Edmund died?”  
“At a meeting,” was the reply.  
“Ah, I hear you’re part of a group. A gang if you prefer.”  
“An organisation,” Hubert muttered.  
“Expand on that.”  
He seemed reluctant. “It’s just a little thing. Us prefects get together every Thursday at nine o’clock.”  
“The time Edmund died.”  
“We didn’t touch Ed!”  
“I’m not accusing you of anything. It was, however, quick on your part to dismiss the idea. What’s the group called?”  
Hubert murmured something.  
“Sorry?” The boy handed us a badge. Sherlock inspected it and a hint of a smile flashed across his face.  
“The Warlocks,” Sherlock smirked as he handed me the badge. I looked over it and returned it to Hubert. “Aha!” He dashed off down the corridor.  
“Sherlock!” I shouted.  
“Thank you,” was the reply. I gave an apologetic smile at Hubert and followed my companion.   
Sherlock led me back to the classroom, where I had to push through a crowd of agitated officers to get to the big classroom window. There was Sherlock, checking the dead boy’s pockets.  
“We already checked – he won’t find anything,” an officer remarked. Sherlock glanced at them and opened up Edmund’s blazer. Pinned to the lining was a Warlock badge, nearly identical to Hubert Branson’s.   
“WHERE’S BRANSON?” I shouted above the loud clamour of the police officers. Hubert, who had been following us, emerged from the crowd. “Why does Edmund have a badge like yours?” I asked. “Is he part of your little club?”  
“No! I mean, I don’t know. Ask Ethan! He’s the leader.”  
“Ethan?” Sherlock was standing behind me.  
“Ethan Charleston,” I finished. “Headmaster’s son.”  
“My son is not responsible for this!” Mr Charleston’s cheeks were red and puffed out and the desk was straining from his stature. His nose was hooked and noticeable.   
“We’re not saying that. We just want to ask Ethan a few questions to aid our investigation,” I added.  
“He was likely involved,” muttered Sherlock.  
“Sherlock-“ I was interrupted by Mr Charleston.  
“Blasphemy! I allowed you to come to my school for an investigation – not to shame my boy who is, might I add, one of the most promising students in the school and hardly knew Harrison. If I see you near my son, I’ll have you removed from the premises.”  
“Very well,” Sherlock replied curtly, ushering me away before I could say anything. “We’ll go back to the investigation.”  
“Stay away from Ethan.”  
“Will do. Thank you,” Sherlock pulled me out of the room and we hurried down the corridor. I stopped Sherlock.  
“Where do we go from here?”  
“To find Ethan,” Sherlock answered and started up to the common rooms.  
The boy who answered the door was short and ratty. His face was somewhat reminiscent of a weasel. He looked uncomfortable, or unsteady. But the hooked nose was seemingly a family trait. This was Ethan Charleston.  
“Ethan, we need to talk to you,” I attempted a comforting voice. He nodded.  
“I suppose this is about Ed. Shame really. I liked Ed.” Sherlock grimaced and handed him the Warlock badge, which he had apparently taken from the crime scene.  
“Ah,” Ethan looked over the badge. “I assume Hubert directed you to me. Yes, I am the founder of the Warlock group but I have hardly any input these days. I know nothing of Ed’s initiation. Or his death, for that matter. Now please remove yourself from here or I will be forced to call my father.”  
Sherlock was grinning. “Come along, John.” For the second time, he pulled me away down the stairs. I glanced over my shoulder to see Mr Charleston’s son shut the door. Sherlock stopped moving and followed my line of sight.  
“Shaking hands,” he remarked.  
“He said he wasn’t involved with the Warlocks.”  
“No…” Sherlock muttered. “But that’s irrelevant.  
“What? But the badge was a clue.”  
“By all means investigate further, Watson. I’m going back to where it began.”   
I slowly made my way back to the crime scene, too tired to spend more time chasing Sherlock. I ambled past the murder classroom’s huge window only to jump back in shock as a face popped out at me. Sherlock drew away from the class and chuckled as I regained my breath.  
“Works perfectly,” I heard from him chatting to a police officer.  
“What was that for?” I asked huffily as I walked into the room.  
“Experiment.”  
“That’s rather laconic. Care to expand?”  
“I have a theory, John. I have a bright idea and I’ve confirmed how it would work.”  
“I’ll take your word for it.”  
“Yes.” 

“Picture this: a boy is messing around in the classroom. Warlocks initiation. He climbs onto the chair, the boys at the window egging him on. The boys at the window disappear. He’s about to step off the chair, thinking he’s done. But at the moment he steps off, another boy appears at the window, hoping to give him a fright. But Edmund jumps with shock at the wrong moment and his tie gets caught on the fan. These scuffle marks on the chair are where the tops of his shoes rubbed, with him hoping to get some balance. But the chair fell over, suspending him in the air and no more Ed, let’s just say. Ed’s dead.”  
“Nice,” my voice was filled with sarcasm.  
“But entirely plausible,” an officer behind me muttered.  
“The solution!” Holmes cried.  
“Okay, but what about the bruises on the coach’s hands?” I asked.  
“Merely an accident,” was the reply.  
“A boy named Topher hit me with a cricket bat,” the Coach had apparently joined us. “These things happen.”  
“So who’s responsible?” I questioned.  
“Oh, no one in particular. In fact I’m not sure who’s legally responsible. Don’t bother my head with law and all that. All the boys at the window maybe. The one who jumped out at Ed maybe. That was Ethan, by the way.”  
“I figured. But how can you confirm that?”  
Sherlock grinned. “I-“   
He was cut off by a police officer. “He confessed.”  
“You’re joking,” I was surprised.  
“Not at all.” 

I guess that’s the end of that, really. There’s not much more I can add to that recount of the events at Charleston Academy. The police took hold of matters from then onwards and I am still awaiting a reply as to what events followed our departure. But the case was solved, and while I still doubt the relevancy of some deductions I suppose Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, did it again.


End file.
